


Contagion

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>& other fills for the gameofships valentine's day event</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jon/Sansa, Contagion

In the morning Jon steals from the warmth of their bed. It is not yet light out but he dons his furs and steps through the dark with a surety that has come from routine. He goes to the woods, to sit before the gods.

Sansa clenches her fists, digs her nails into the soft flesh of her palm, so she will not reach for him. She does not want to see the pained look in his face when he bids himself to turn away from her. He will come back to her again, if she is careful about how she asks. The easiest men are those like Jon—the just and the honorable.

And yet those are the very traits she loves him for. It was Jon who showed her good still exists when she had thought otherwise. Jon Snow is everything her father would have wanted for her–everything she wants. That he is her brother has long ceased to matter to Sansa.

When he has gone she rolls into the space he occupied and presses her cheek to the indentation in the pillow.

Jon worries he is ruining her by laying with her but Sansa has already been ruined. In truth Sansa fears that she will ruin Jon inadvertantly, that the lessons she has learnt from the likes of Cersei and Petyr will destroy his essence as they have hers. But Sansa cannot bring herself to stop.

Already she is planning her seduction—the gown she will wear tonight, the smile she will give him, the tone she will pitch her voice.


	2. Robb/Sansa, Obligation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just this once

Sansa's hands are twisted in his tunic and her darkened hair spills against his shoulders and on either side of his face as she leans over him. Her kisses are soft and gentle but he can taste a desperate need in each. 

When he nips at her jaw she giggles and for a moment she is the Sansa he is afraid had been lost to the South. That in itself should be enough to satisfy him but then Sansa pulls back, revealing herself to him as her shift comes up over her head, and Robb can only want more.

When he does not make to touch her, arrested by the sight of the long line of her body and the pink of her hardening nipples and the shadows that curve around her as he would very much like to do, she takes his hand in hers, places his fingers to the skin between her breasts. What little moonlight filters into his chambers is enough to reveal the red of her roots and the blue of her eyes. His desire is not diminished.

Sansa's lips part. Her voice is low, obscured by the thick of the night, and her words sound a song to his ears. "I would give you my maidenhead. There is no man I trust more than you."

Under his touch she quivers, when he draws his hand up her body to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling through her locks. "Come here," Robb says, voice hoarse, thumb rubbing the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.

So much has been taken from Sansa; it would be almost his duty, to accept what she would give. Of course it is nothing close to a duty when he rolls her beneath him. He sucks at the thin skin of her throat and touches her tenderly, as best as he can with hands roughened by battle, until her breath comes raspy. She mewls his name and it is sweeter on her lips. His eyes slip closed to better concentrate on the sound of it, to better lose himself in the feel and the scent and the taste of her for this one night, this only time that he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today's prompts are beautifulllll


	3. Arianne/Arys, Seen

The door to Ser Arys's chambers is slightly ajar and on a whim Arianne pushes it open further. Though a knight of the Kingsguard, he is oblivious to her entrance. His back is to her as he carelessly pulls his tunic over his head and off, revealing the shifting muscles beneath pale skin. Ser Arys's cloak is draped reverentially over a chair. His tunic recieves none of the same treatment and drops to the floor.

He is truly beautiful, she thinks, leaning against the doorframe. Unbidden her hand has wrapped around her front to caress her side. It remains over her silks, rubbing languoursly as she is thinks about how different from her own Ser Arys's body will feel under her touch. The shadows on his back are deep, the sun casting its yellow brilliance on its planes as if to make him glow. She would like to map the space between his shoulderblades with her lips and press the tips of her fingers to the vertebrae of his spine. Arianne has seen him blush around her often enough to know she will be the first woman to learn the feel of him and that is thrilling in its own way.

Her thoughts are interrupted when he begins donning a fresh tunic.

"You should wear the silks of Dorne, Ser." Ser Arys starts and Arianne bites back her smirk, just a bit. "You will be cooler in them."

Arianne closes the door on the knight before he has finished stuttering out her title. _Princess_ is nice in his voice and she finds herself wondering if her given name on its own will be sweeter. She will not wait long to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot return you your time


	4. Theon/Sansa, Dreamers

Sansa is alone in the sept, singing softly to her gods. He waits for her to finish and when she has he crosses the distance between them with sure, quick steps. Each of her emotions passes unveiled over her face. She is surprised, then pleased. Her cheeks pinken prettily. She acquiesces to give him her favor.

One of Lord Stark's bannermen is holding a tourney to celebrate the nameday of his son and Theon is old enough to enter the lists. He is not particularly fond of nor skilled at jousting but Theon has decided that if he wins—and he very well might (Theon is only barely a man, green as grass though he does not know it, and his dreams of glory come easily and in number)—he will ask Lord Stark for his daughter's hand.

Theon knew Lord Stark thought little more of him than as a ward, though he was a Greyjoy and would one day rule the Isles in his own right. The tourney would be his chance to prove his worth. When he won everyone would see the man he had become. They would realize he was deserving of her when he crowned Sansa queen of love and beauty. He was sure even Lady Stark would approve when she saw how pleased he could make her eldest daughter. Then he would be Robb's brother for true, and perhaps find a father in Lord Stark.

Her favor is just a scrap of pink lace scented faintly of lemon, a smell it loses soon enough. Theon keeps it under his pillow in the days leading to the tourney. In the security of the darkness with only the light of the moon to see by, Theon winds it around his fingers and wonders what it had meant when Sansa raised herself to her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek. It was a chaste kiss, something he might have recieved from his mother, but he came away from it feeling like a green boy. It was a brief kiss, but he could feel it long after, and when he next caught his reflection he was somewhat surprised to see it had left no brand.

Theon would wonder but he would not know that her kiss and her favour were not indications of affection for him, would not have been even had she known he desired her hand. Theon is handsome enough to be a knight and had made her feel like a lady in a song, and so Sansa had acted as a lady in a song would, and bestowed him a kiss with her favor. Yet Theon is no knight, Sansa is but a girl, and—as both would learn some years later—life is no song.


	5. Myranda/Mya/Sansa, Between

Myranda stands some distance off, looking at her critically, head cocked, while Mya tugs here and there to adjust the fall of Sansa's dress with determined, but gentle, hands. Lord Petyr has spared no expense and has had three candidates made, each in white and grey. He has allowed Sansa to choose in which one she will wed Harry the Heir.

"The green looks nice with your hair," Myranda says approvingly. "Perhaps you should leave it like that."

At the mention Sansa's hands drift to her hair, hanging loose over her shoulders. The green marriage cloak, adorned not with the Titan's head but a mocking bird, weighs heavily on her shoulders. Perhaps it looks well with Alayne's brown hair, but it would clash terribly with Sansa's Tully red.

"I liked the first one," Sansa decides. She feels stifled beneath the cloak and that had been the lightest and least cumbersome of the dresses.

When Mya wraps her arms around Sansa's waist, resting her head on her shoulder, and murmurs, "I liked you in none of them," Sansa feels her cheeks already heating. Myranda's face splits into a familiar, wicked grin. The elder woman comes to stand behind her, and Sansa can feel her hands grazing over the small of her back, blunted through the dress. Myranda tugs efficiently at the laces of the gown while Mya's hands move up to her breasts.

The dress is soon crumpled and forgotten on the floor. Sansa stands in nothing, divested easily of even her small clothes, and somewhere in the back of her mind she is aware of how very inappropriate this is—to do this and to want this—, but she cannot remember why she should care. Mya's hand (eyes closed she cannot see, but she can tell—Mya has a bastard's hands and Myranda a lady's; Sansa likes both equally well) finds the place between her legs that makes her dizzy and Sansa finds herself moaning. Her knees feel as though they will give way; she reaches blindly for both of them, Mya before her and Myranda behind her, knowing they would not let her fall.

Her name is on both their lips—Alayne, Alayne. (They will all be calling you Queen Sansa, soon, Petyr says, but that sounds no more right.) Though the name they call her is wrong it is still _her_ that they care for. Sansa, who has not been loved in so long, smiles and sinks into their embrace, into this space she has found for herself between a lady and a bastard.


End file.
